Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent theeRespite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted - nevermore!

Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow-You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand-How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep- while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?

Kind solace in a dying hour!Such, father, is not (now) my theme-I will not madly deem that powerOf Earth may shrive me of the sinUnearthly pride hath revell'd in-I have no time to dote or dream:You call it hope-that fire of fire!It is but agony of desire:If I can hope-Oh God! I can-Its fount is holier-more divine-I would not call thee fool, old man,But such is not a gift of thine.Know thou the secret of a spiritBow'd from its wild pride into shame.O yearning heart! I did inheritThy withering portion with the fame,The searing glory which hath shoneAmid the jewels of my throne,Halo of Hell! and with a painNot Hell shall make me fear again-O craving heart, for the lost flowersAnd sunshine of my summer hours!The undying voice of that dead time,With its interminable chime,Rings, in the spirit of a spell,Upon thy emptiness-a knell.

I have not always been as now:The fever'd diadem on my browI claim'd and won usurpingly-Hath not the same fierce heirdom givenRome to the Caesar-this to me?The heritage of a kingly mind,And a proud spirit which hath strivenTriumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:The mists of the Taglay have shedNightly their dews upon my head,And, I believe, the winged strifeAnd tumult of the headlong airHave nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven-that dew-it fell(Mid dreams of an unholy night)Upon me with the touch of Hell,While the red flashing of the lightFrom clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,Appeared to my half-closing eyeThe pageantry of monarchy,And the deep trumpet-thunder's roarCame hurriedly upon me, tellingOf human battle, where my voice,My own voice, silly child!-was swelling(O! how my spirit would rejoice,And leap within me at the cry)The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my headUnshelter'd-and the heavy windRendered me mad and deaf and blind.It was but man, I thought, who shedLaurels upon me: and the rush-The torrent of the chilly airGurgled within my ear the crushOf empires-with the captive's prayer-The hum of suitors-and the toneOf flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,Usurp'd a tyranny which menHave deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,My innate nature-be it so:But father, there liv'd one who, then,Then-in my boyhood-when their fireBurn'd with a still intenser glow,(For passion must, with youth, expire)E'en then who knew this iron heartIn woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words-alas!-to tellThe loveliness of loving well!Nor would I now attempt to traceThe more than beauty of a faceWhose lineaments, upon my mind,Are-shadows on th' unstable wind:Thus I remember having dweltSome page of early lore upon,With loitering eye, till I have feltThe letters-with their meaning-meltTo fantasies-with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!Love-as in infancy was mine-'Twas such as angel minds aboveMight envy; her young heart the shrineOn which my every hope and thoughtWere incense-then a goodly gift,For they were childish and upright-Pure-as her young example taught:Why did I leave it, and, adrift,Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age-and love-together,Roaming the forest, and the wild;My breast her shield in wintry weather-And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,And she would mark the opening skies,I saw no Heaven-but in her eyes.

Young Love's first lesson is-the heart:For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,When, from our little cares apart,And laughing at her girlish wiles,I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,And pour my spirit out in tears-There was no need to speak the rest-No need to quiet any fearsOf her-who ask'd no reason why,But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the loveMy spirit struggled with, and strove,When, on the mountain peak, alone,Ambition lent it a new tone-I had no being-but in thee:The world, and all it did containIn the earth-the air-the sea-Its joy-its little lot of painThat was new pleasure-the ideal,Dim vanities of dreams by night-

And dimmer nothings which were real-(Shadows-and a more shadowy light!)Parted upon their misty wings,And, so, confusedly, becameThine image, and-a name-a name!Two separate-yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious-have you knownThe passion, father? You have not:A cottager, I mark'd a throneOf half the world as all my own,And murmur'd at such lowly lot-But, just like any other dream,Upon the vapour of the dewMy own had past, did not the beamOf beauty which did while it thro'The minute-the hour-the day-oppressMy mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crownOf a high mountain which look'd downAfar from its proud natural towersOf rock and forest, on the hills-The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,But mystically-in such guiseThat she might deem it nought besideThe moment's converse; in her eyesI read, perhaps too carelessly-A mingled feeling with my own-The flush on her bright cheek, to meSeem'd to become a queenly throneToo well that I should let it beLight in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,And donn'd a visionary crown-Yet it was not that FantasyHad thrown her mantle over me-But that, among the rabble-men,Lion ambition is chained down-And crouches to a keeper's hand-Not so in deserts where the grand-The wild-the terrible conspireWith their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!Is not she queen of Earth? her prideAbove all cities? in her handTheir destinies? in all besideOf glory which the world hath knownStands she not nobly and alone?Falling-her veriest stepping-stoneShall form the pedestal of a throne-And who her sovereign? Timour-heWhom the astonished people sawStriding o'er empires haughtilyA diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit givenOn Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!Which fall'st into the soul like rainUpon the Siroc-wither'd plain,And, failing in thy power to bless,But leav'st the heart a wilderness!Idea! which bindest life aroundWith music of so strange a sound,And beauty of so wild a birth-Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could seeNo cliff beyond him in the sky,His pinions were bent droopingly-And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.'Twas sunset: when the sun will partThere comes a sullenness of heartTo him who still would look uponThe glory of the summer sun.That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,So often lovely, and will listTo the sound of the coming darkness (knownTo those whose spirits hearken) as oneWho, in a dream of night, would flyBut cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon-the white moonShed all the splendour of her noon,Her smile is chilly, and her beam,In that time of dreariness, will seem(So like you gather in your breath)A portrait taken after death.And boyhood is a summer sunWhose waning is the dreariest one-For all we live to know is known,And all we seek to keep hath flown-Let life, then, as the day-flower, fallWith the noon-day beauty-which is all.

I reach'd my home-my home no moreFor all had flown who made it so.I pass'd from out its mossy door,And, tho' my tread was soft and low,A voice came from the threshold stoneOf one whom I had earlier known-O, I defy thee, Hell, to showOn beds of fire that burn below,A humbler heart-a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe-I know-for Death, who comes for meFrom regions of the blest afar,Where there is nothing to deceive,Hath left his iron gate ajar,And rays of truth you cannot seeAre flashing thro' Eternity-I do believe that Eblis hathA snare in every human path-Else how, when in the holy groveI wandered of the idol, Love,Who daily scents his snowy wingsWith incense of burnt offeringsFrom the most unpolluted things,Whose pleasant bowers are yet so rivenAbove with trellis'd rays from Heaven,No mote may shun-no tiniest fly-The lightning of his eagle eye-How was it that Ambition crept,Unseen, amid the revels there,Till growing bold, he laughed and leaptIn the tangles of Love's very hair?

There are some qualities--some incorporate things,That have a double life, which thus is madeA type of that twin entity which springsFrom matter and light, evenced in solid and shade.There is a two-fold Silence--sea and shore--Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,Some human memories and tearful lore,Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!No power hath he of evil in himself;But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,That haunteth the lone regions where hath trodNo foot of man) commend thyself to God!

By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule-From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,With forms that no man can discoverFor the tears that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto skies of fire;Lakes that endlessly outspreadTheir lone waters- lone and dead,-Their still waters- still and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead,-Their sad waters, sad and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily,-By the mountains- near the riverMurmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-By the grey woods,- by the swampWhere the toad and the newt encamp-By the dismal tarns and poolsWhere dwell the Ghouls,-By each spot the most unholy-In each nook most melancholy-There the traveller meets aghastSheeted Memories of the Past-Shrouded forms that start and sighAs they pass the wanderer by-White-robed forms of friends long given,In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-For the spirit that walks in shadow'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!But the traveller, travelling through it,May not- dare not openly view it!Never its mysteries are exposedTo the weak human eye unclosed;So wills its King, who hath forbidThe uplifting of the fringed lid;And thus the sad Soul that here passesBeholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have wandered home but newlyFrom this ultimate dim Thule.

THOU dark, sea-stirring storm,Whence comest thou in thy might —Nay — wait, thou dim and dreamy form —Storm spirit, I call thee — 't is mine of right —Arrest thee in thy troubled flight.STORM SPIRITThou askest me whence I came —I came o'er the sleeping sea,It roused at my torrent of storm and flame,And it howled aloud in its agony,And swelled to the sky — that sleeping sea.Thou askest me what I met —A ship from the Indian shore,A tall proud ship with her sails all set —Far down in the sea that ship I bore,My storms wild rushing wings before.And her men will forever lie,Below the unquiet sea;And tears will dim full many an eye,Page 157Of those who shall widows and orphans be,And their days be years — for their misery.A boat with a starving crew —For hunger they howled and swore;While the blood from a fellow's veins they drewI came upon them with rush and roar —Far under the waves that boat I bore.Two ships in a fearful fight —When a hundred guns did flashI came upon them — no time for flight —But under the sea their timbers crashAnd over their guns the wild waters dashA wretch on a single plank —And I tossed him on the shore —A night and a day of the sea he drank,But the wearied wretch to the land I bore —And now he walketh the earth once more —MAGICIANStorm spirit — go on thy path —The spirit has spread his wings —And comes on the sea with a rush of wrath,As a war horse when he springs —And over the earth his winds he flings —And over the earth — nor stop nor stay —The winds of the storm king go out on their way.P —